


He's A Man, Isn't He?

by oliver_ariadne



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Period Typical Transphobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliver_ariadne/pseuds/oliver_ariadne





	He's A Man, Isn't He?

How could he have never noticed? It all seemed so obvious now. 

Hastings had heard of women living as a gender opposite to what they were born as, no one knowing until after their death and the mortician or coroner discovering that the corpse was in fact a man. It wasn't common, but it happened. He wondered if Miss Lemon knew, or George. But it was Poirot, he was good at hiding things. Hastings never heard Poirot talk about his family or childhood. Perhaps that was why.

Hastings had discovered his friend's secret after offering to aid George in clearing out the apartment Poirot kept. Hastings had been going through the night table and found a bundle of photographs and letters. Hastings had opened it up to see if it was anything worth hanging on to, finding the majority of the letters addressed to a Hermione Poirot. His initial reaction was that Hermione was either a wife or sister that Poirot had lost. He would have never guessed her to be Poirot himself. Hastings opened the top letter out of a strange curiosity that he had discovered something important, and in a way, it was. The letters were written in French, and Hastings knew enough basic French to get the gist of the message.

My Dear Hermione,  
Your Mother and I insist that you come home.  
Your behavior has been a disgrace on our family and you joining the Belgian Police Force will only end in tears. They will not accept a woman and I can and will inform them of such.  
It breaks my heart to learn that I have lost my daughter, but can no longer allow you home.  
Your Father.

Upon first reading, Hastings' head spun. He began to suspect Hermione could be Poirot but he didn't want to believe it. Could he have been a woman? Hastings flipped though the photographs. Some were of a young lady and her mother. Some of a young lady in men's clothing with her hair cut in a boyish style. Then Hastings stopped. He came to a group photo. In the left corner, he spotted the man he knew. It was a photograph of the Belgian Police Force's officers. There he was, a younger Poirot, in uniform and with what was to become his iconic mustaches. But upon closer inspection, there was something almost feminine in Poirot's face, his mustache almost theatrical. Hastings knew Poirot wore a false mustaches, but had it always been false? It would explain Poirot's obsession with how he presented himself, and meticulousness in which he dressed. Obsessed with keeping himself completely covered, afraid of being seen in less than three layers of clothing. He was the ideal man in all his dandified glory. A memory came back to Hastings, and he wondered how much Miss Lemon knew. She was a woman herself and could have suspected. He defiantly didn't come off as straight, Hastings had always suspected as much. Years ago, after he and Poirot and returned from an investigation, Poirot had upon returning home rushed into the bathroom locking the door. He and Miss Lemon had found this unusual, Miss Lemon suggesting that Poirot was dyeing his hair, much to Hasting's surprise. Hastings figured it was an absurd act of vanity and Poirot must have spotted a grey hair and meant to remove the offending colour immediately. It could have been that, or now he knew, a million other things. It was still unusual for a man to dye his hair regardless, Hastings commenting such. Now he thought on it, Hastings remembered the odd look Miss Lemon he gave him in response. Miss Lemon must have known. Hastings doubted Poirot outright told her. She must have figured it out and confronted him or caught him in the act. Poirot's friend Ariadne often commented that what the world needed was a woman detective. Based on her comment, she either knew and in a subtile way hinted at why Poirot was so good, or was bragging she was better than Poirot assuming he was a man as he had introduced himself. There were so many unusual things that Poirot knew that made him so good as a detective or as a friend. Poirot was able to understand women and they felt safe around him, Poirot must have used prior experience. He knew how to deal with a variety of ailments that the average man wouldn't have, but a woman would most certainly have. Hastings wondered why he never knew, he suspected it was because Poirot often accused him of being a loose cannon. Hastings would never have betrayed his closest friend in such a way, especially with something so important. A secret like Poirot's could have cost him his career. The press would have had a field day. He would ensure the world would never know and burn everything.

Hastings decided to complete his clearing of the night table drawer. It appeared that majority of the things Poirot held close to him as they could have given him away if found, were kept in that drawer. There was a box of high quality false mustaches. Now thinking on it, there were a few times Poirot had 'shaved' his mustaches and opted for a false mustaches for a case. Like when he played the part of Achilles Poirot when they investigated the Big Four. Poirot for having what looked to be very full mustaches, appeared impossibly clean shaven when he removed the false mustaches to be Achilles. Hastings at the time assumed that Poirot was just very meticulous in the manner in which he shaved for the role.

At the back of the drawer was another letter. Hastings was surprised that it wasn't with the others, most unusual with Poirot's mania for organization. This Hastings had to investigate. The note was addressed in Poirot's own hand, to, to Hastings' surprise, himself. Hastings opened the letter feeling a little less guilty for wanting to read it, now knowing it was meant for him.

My Dear Hastings-  
You have always been a good man and a true friend, and it pains me that I will never bring myself to tell you what I must in person. I trust you. I wish that I could live my life and never reveal my secret to another living soul, but I would be ridden with guilt for deceiving my dear friend.  
The truth is that I am not the man you think I am. I never told you of my childhood in Belgium, but I will tell you now. I was born Hermione Poirot, a girl. I grew up with the belief that one day I would become the man I always hoped to be. My parents tried everything to hold on to their little girl, but the truth is, she never existed. At age 19, I left home and joined the police as Hercule Poirot. Like many who in their idiocy called me 'Hercules' Poirot, were in a way not wrong. I was surprised how quickly I was accepted into the police force. They either were either as unwilling to notice the details as I thought they would be to realize my true nature, or I was too good for them to lose. I climbed the ranks quickly, eventually becoming the chief of police. It was at this point when my parents discovered what had become of their estranged 'daughter'. They black mailed me, my father threatening to write to my superiors. It was my luck that the letter was lost or never sent at all. Maybe some shred of respect remained for his child, hoping that 'she' would return to him one day. After that I made sure to cut all ties with my parents. While in Belgium, I gained a reputation as Hercule Poirot, and used this to my advantage there and when I found myself a refugee in England. My past was erased as long as I never spoke a word of it.  
By now, you should have had your suspicions if you use your little grey cells the way I have taught you. Miss Lemon knew, of course. She has that intuition of hers and is never wrong. I bet she would have made a fine detective if she had such an ambition. It was a few years after hiring her, that she had, as in her job description, read my letters. It had been nearly twenty five years since I had last heard from home, and never expected to. My brother, yes I did have a brother but he was not called Achilles nor was he my twin or a detective, had written to me to inform me of my mother's death. His letter was filled with the most vulgar language directed at me, filling poor Miss Lemon with horror. I can remember the moment when she had come into my office, looking shaken and as if she knew something dark. It filled me with a fear that she knew, and it did nothing to calm me upon learning what she had read. She asked me if I was the person who the letter was written to, a Miss Hermione Poirot. I told her that the letter was meant for me but I was not her. She had a look of understanding at that. Not another word passed between us but a mutual understanding in each other and an agreement to never speak of the event again. Oh I miss her, Hastings. She was a good woman. She often would laugh at my attempts to cover up my true nature and transform into Hercule Poirot. Then I would remember to tone down my near theatrical masculinity. You may have found I wear the false mustaches, no man could ever keep such magnificent mustaches, not even Hercule Poirot. It gave me an affirmation that I was a man, and convinced the world too.  
It surprised me that while living with me, you never suspected a thing. Perhaps you did, and being a good man, respectfully said nothing. People never use their little grey cells, so I was never in danger of being found out by anyone else.  
I hope in my heart that your opinion of me will not change after my confession. You are indeed a good friend, Hastings.  
May we continue our adventures for many more years,  
Hercule Poirot

Tears filled Hastings' eyes. How much it tortured Poirot, he never even sent the letter. He must have written it years ago. He wondered if Poirot ever regretted not sending it, or had intended to tell him in person years later and ran out of time. Hastings' opinion of his friend would never change. The man he knew was Hercule Poirot.


End file.
